


Blue Silk and Satin Stars

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Because I thought this would be Fun, Crossdressing, Drunken England, Family Fluff, Fourth of July, Happy Birthday America!, Happy Fourth of July!, Historical Hetalia, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Paternal England, Revolutionary War, What Have I Done, Who Knows?, at the end, eh, holiday fic, pretty sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 04:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11395206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: Alfred drags a drunk and petulant Arthur home one night, and ends up revealing a long held, dearly kept secret about his Revolution.In which Arthur's a canny old drunk, Alfred's nostalgic, and when Washington had first met his fledgling nation, he'd never expectedthis.





	Blue Silk and Satin Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Because thinking that George Washington employed a shadow army of cross-dressers and women in his spy ring is just gold. Founder of Covert Intelligence, indeed.

            The door slammed behind them, and it was all that Alfred could do to dump the struggling green-eyed nation onto his bed before leaping out of reach. The old pirate growled and sneered at him as he tried to flop off the bed, only to roll back down to the middle. Alfred felt his body relax when he realized Arthur wasn’t going to go anywhere, and sagged against the closed bedroom door.

            “Bloody brat,” the green-eyed nation snarled, eyes glowing viciously, and Alfred snorted even as he moved closer to the bed, fearless. “Answer my bloody question, you twat!” the former empire scowled at him, and he rolled his eyes.

            “You’re drunk, old man,” he sighed, even as Arthur scowled at him viciously, and tried to trip him up. “You’re not even going to remember this in the morning.”

            “How did you do it?” and in that one question, Arthur sounded so unquestionably sober – despite all the evidence to the contrary – that Alfred almost jumped at it. Blue eyes studied the drunken nation, who was watching him with an intense scrutiny that belayed his drunkenness. It was such an intense shift in attitude that it caught him off guard.

            “How did I do what?” he asked, curious. Arthur rarely questioned him when he dragged the elder man home drunk. Oh, he would rant and rave and expound upon, in great detail, how bad of a son he was, how rebellious and unruly and stubborn beyond recompense he was. He would sob and whine and – on rare occasion when his Empire strength would mysteriously return to him – attempt to discipline him the old fashion way, which led to Alfred fleeing as gracefully as he could (read: couldn’t). But questions….

            An arm lashed out and dragged him down in a sprawl besides the intoxicated nation, and he eyed Arthur warily, contemplating how likely the other nation was likely to become physical. But Arthur only pulled him close to him – so he couldn’t get away in a hurry – and eyed him contemplatively.

            “How did you disappear in the war?” the elder nation clarified, and Alfred’s brows furrowed, “I couldn’t find you until Yorktown. And I looked. I looked everywhere for you, pulled forces, placed spies and used every resource I could, but I couldn’t find you. And you didn’t even seem to know I was doing it!”

            “During the Revolution?” he asked, surprised. Arthur glared at him but nodded. Alfred bit his lip and thought about all those nights that he’d spent, centuries ago, fleeing redcoats and plainclothes spies within his own forces. He thought of long nights where Washington’s paranoia about his safety turned the man gray on top of all the stress he was dealing with. _So, that **was** England’s work. _ He’d long since wondered.

            “That would explain Washington’s paranoia,” he murmured, and indeed, it would.

            “ _What?!_ ” was snarled into his ear, and he belatedly remembered how Arthur absolutely _despised_ any reference to the man renowned as “America’s Father.”

            “Well…”

* * *

**_May 1776_ **

            _“You want me to do **what**?!”_

_“I want you to take shelter with Congress in Philadelphia,” the General explained patiently, though not without an edge to his tone that wasn’t usually present in his conversations with this particular boy._

_“But all the fighting is leagues away!” the colony protested, and Washington pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed, “I won’t be able to help at all!”_

_“That’s rather the **point** ,” the man said softly, firmly._

_“You can’t – ”_

_“I will **not** have you in jeopardy, America,” Washington said to him, cutting him off, eyes beseeching him despite the firm, uncompromising tone of his voice. “The redcoats are out looking for you. Already, I’ve spotted some of the king’s men integrating themselves amongst the forces, searching for you. England is raising all hell to find you. You’re unmistakable, as his child. They will know who you are the moment they see you; I cannot risk England retaking you.”_

_“I can be careful,” he pleaded, “Please, General, they won’t notice me, I swear -!”_

_“Enough!” Alfred flinched when the General slammed his hands down against the desk. Washington sagged against the desk, sighing, before he straightened and turned to look at the dismayed visage of his young fledgling nation. “I do not like to see you unhappy, Alfred, but I **must** insist on this. For your safety, for the movement; you must understand.”_

_The Virginian General could **see** the young nation-to-be about to concede to the demand, when he paused. Then, the blond glanced up and there was something oddly determined in those blue eyes that made his heart sink into his stomach. Blue eyes narrowed, “What if I find a way to stay undetected? Could I stay on with you?”_

_“A matter to stay completely undetected by spies who would be looking for you by description?” the man asked, skeptical. The teen nodded, a hint of mischief coming to his eyes._

_“Why, I’d wager even you wouldn’t recognize me, General.”_

_He hummed, “Congress will make their decision on Independence within the next few months, and I will be there to hear their proclamation. I know you will be there as well. If I cannot find you on that day, I will consider it.”_

_A broad smirk lit the teen’s face, and the General realized at that moment that he was really going to be in for it._

**_July 1776_ **

_The sound of the bells tolling echoed throughout the square, and undoubtedly, throughout the heart of their fledgling new nation. It filled him with pride as much as it did with anxiety. He knew how badly the fighting was, and how it was likely to get worse. They needed a quick victory, but it was unlikely._

_If they won, they would be an inspiration and a catalyst for the rest of the world, and the British Empire knew it well. If they lost… they’d be made into an example._

_He thought of bright-eyed young America, whom he’d known as special from the moment he’d seen the lad, and he couldn’t bear the thought of what the Empire might do to him if they lost. It only strengthened his determination to see the boy safe._

_One of the Congressional aides was talking to him when an odd sense of distraction came over him. He cast his eyes over the crowd, something inexplicable drawing his attention and holding it captive, even as he hummed in acknowledgement of the young aide._

_He couldn’t say for a moment why his attention hovered on the young brunette in the sapphire satin gown, but it nagged at him. Something about the young lady was undeniably familiar, drawing his attention and holding it captive. He felt an odd rush of paternal protectiveness when he caught sight of the young lady walking on her lonesome in the town, completely unaccompanied. The flush of rage at such neglect was met with the absolute confusion of **why** he was feeling that way over a complete stranger. But at that point, even from across the way, the young lady had realized she’d caught his attention, and turned to glance at him. He couldn’t quite make out what she looked like, but she was unmistakably smirking at him. What on earth?_

_“General Washington?” a voice called to him, and he turned to find one of the Congressional aides looking at him in askance, and he realized he must’ve missed the young man’s query._

_“My apologies, lad,” he said, “Could you repeat yourself?” The young man flushed at the acknowledgement, but obediently repeated his message. He allowed himself to be drawn back into the congressional building and discussion._

_But the rustle of skirts and an oddly familiar smirk occupied a large part of his thoughts for_

_It was hours later, pushing into the depth of midnight, when he saw the young lady again. He was seated in a corner at a pub in the same city, spreading his correspondence in front of him, trying to coordinate everything, when he heard soft footsteps heading his way. He thought the source was heading towards the rear exit – which was strategically placed right next to him – and was startled when a wash of sapphire satin settled in the stool on the bar counter besides him. He looked up, disbelief written all over his face when he caught sight of the young brunette fiddling with a glass filled with beer, half-drunk. How long had she been in the tavern and he hadn’t noticed?_

_“General Washington,” she murmured, a smirk quirking the corner of her lips, and there was something odd in her form of address. Something was nagging him tirelessly, something **familiar…**_

_“It’s quite beyond the hour young ladies might be out in such a city,” he asserted, after a moment, feeling the paternal sense of protectiveness emerge, especially when he realized how **young** she really was, “Despite the troops, it’s not always safe.” The young lady smirked at him, never looking away from her glass, before she sighed and reclined in her seat. Blue eyes gleamed out at him in a side-glance, and he nearly dropped his own drink._

_“I told you, General,” the young lady’s voice was strong, firm and **familiar** , and his mind stalled because it absolutely **couldn’t be** … “Not even you would recognize me.”_

_The young lady then straightened in her seat, she turned to face him, and his mind utterly blanked because familiar blue eyes grinned at him under the satin pinner cap. Satin stars gleamed from where they’d been stitched into the cap, and he couldn’t help but find them oddly fitting, even as thrown as he was._

_“Well, sir,” she – no, **he** – drawled, a smirk sprawled across his face, blue eyes dancing, “How’d I do?”_

_He’d never get the beer stains out of his papers._

**_December 1777_ **

_“Emily?” a voice inquired from behind him, and he swirled around, a hand rising to his chest in genuine shock, before he calmed at the sight of who was greeting him. Earnest hazel eyes watched him worriedly._

_“Don’t startle me so,” he said exasperatedly, voice tired, “I would’ve brained you had my reflexes been any slower.” He took the glass in his hand that he’d nearly raised with him and set it on the bar counter before making his way behind it. His skirts – a gentle red and cream – swished around him against the furniture as he walked, and he could feel the eyes of other men tracing his figure. He wondered what they would think if they knew they were thinking so lecherously about a man in a dress._

_“You must learn not to react so violently, sister,” his fake-brother cover said, and he nearly rolled his eyes. The General had eyes everywhere, after all, including the young man in front of him. He snagged a bottle of whisky from behind the bar._

_“The occupation makes everyone nervous, Jonathan,” he said, pouring the other a generous glass, “Them soldiers treat us all the same, dear brother. Even us good and loyal folk.”_

_“You mustn’t speak that way, Emily,” he said urgently, hand curling nervously around the glass, even though he knew it was part of their act. “You must have caution now.”_

_Indeed, he had to be cautious. He’d been in Philadelphia over a year ago, and it had been a huge difference from then to now. He’d flaunted who he’d been: a young lady of relative standing, undoubtedly loyal to the Revolution from the way she dressed, and a secret contact point for Washington’s spies. Now he had to hide that under the guise of a loyal but worried young lady, seeking secrets from the redcoats who frequented the tavern ‘she’ helped run with her brother._

_He was pretty sure George had gotten a migraine when he’d learned he was stuck in a dress in an occupied city on the other side of the states._

_It was frustrating as all hell being stuck in an occupied city where he should be able to run around free but instead had to keep his head down and mouth shut until Washington could extradite him. He could already see the results of the city's occupation taking a toll on its occupants, and even the loyalists amongst them were feeling the strain on their loyalties. Perhaps that was the only good thing about this occupation: it was bringing them together._

_But even so, he was in even more danger than anyone could possibly imagine. Washington's latest message had informed him that soon, he'd have to perform to an utterly flawless degree. Arthur was on his way to Philadelphia, and if Washington couldn't get him out beforehand, then all of their hopes rested on Alfred being able to pass flawlessly, effortlessly, as a young loyalist lady in a fairly well off family. And even then, it was risky._

_Alfred may have claimed his independence, but he wasn't a full nation until Arthur released him from the bond they shared as colony and colonizer. That meant that Arthur could sense him. In broader terms, while they were farther apart, it didn't help as much as the Empire maybe thought it might've. But in the same city? Within walking distance of each other? He hoped to all the deities out there that that pull didn't work the same anymore, or he was completely screwed, dress or no dress._

_The door slammed open and half the occupants of the bar jumped. He whirled around and immediately wished he hadn’t. Jonathan choked on his whiskey._

_Of all his goddamn luck!_

_He turned around and smoothed down the paneled front of his dress and knelt down behind the bar, grabbing for some of the liquor he stored down there. He breathed in deeply, deliberately, and held it for a moment before exhaling it in a sigh. He repeated that for a second more, before he stood up again, settling the scotch on the bar._

_He smiled and refilled Jonathan’s whiskey with scotch, shaking the loose locks of bronze hair to fall in his face. He hoped that would shield him from the vicious verdant orbs scanning the bar. Washington’s information was off._

_Arthur wasn’t on his way to Philadelphia. He was **already here**._

_And if he didn’t pull off a goddamn miracle, his colonizer would find him in a **goddamn dress**._

_Fuck this shit._

* * *

            A wry smile touched his lips, “It wasn’t that you didn’t find me, Dad,” he admitted quietly, “It was that you didn’t _recognize_ me.”

            Arthur snorted, even as his eyes sharpened at the use of the old title, “And how was I supposed to miss you? I could still feel you wherever you were.”

            He scoffed, “You missed me once when I was right in front of you.” And god damn it, but that had been the most terrifying incident of them all.

            “It wasn’t easy,” he smirked, “but it didn’t take much.”

            Just satin, silk, a little righteous indignation, and a Hollywood smile.

            He was still feeling a little off, confused at his sudden urge to indulge his father in answers he’d held close to his chest for centuries, but he shrugged it off with habitual ease.

He probably had one drink too many if he was going to be this loose lipped. He guessed it couldn't hurt, though. It wasn't like the drunken old man would remember this in the morning anyways.

            If he'd been any sharper that night, he probably wouldn't have missed the way Arthur's green eyes glowed and sharpened at his concession. But with just enough alcohol in his blood, nostalgia clouding hid memories, and the familiarity of his situation... it was enough.

            “Oh really?” the Brit drawled, baring his teeth, and Alfred felt the urge to move away, “Well then, _enlighten me_.”

* * *

_“A round of beer,” a soldier grunted at him, and he bit down the snarky comeback about ‘which kind’ that he’d have asked anyone else. Instead, he cast his eyes over the number of redcoats in his bar, and withdrew the same number glasses for the same beer they were forced to import from Great Britain’s markets, rather than the better quality cache of smuggled beer they had stashed away._

_He filled all the glasses, the soldier dumped a heap of coins on the counter, he twitched, collected them, and turned away to store them as the drinking and merriment began behind him._

_Only, a voice stopped him cold in his tracks, when it asked, “Brandy for me,” and all he could do was nod. He stowed away the coins in the appropriate box, before he reached to grab the expensive brandy he knew the elder preferred, and a glass. He poured it behind the counter, settling the brandy back in its place before he pushed the glass over to where waiting green eyes watched him._

_A nod of thanks, the tinkle of coins on the bar top, and the elder man grumbled and turned away, intent on his drink. Alfred nearly dropped the coins he’d collected in the sheer relief of it._

            _Jonathan obviously had no compunctions about doing similarly, because he drained his glass and thunked it down on the counter, his head dropping down to thud right next to it._

_He couldn’t quite help it; he snorted. “Another then, Johnnie?” he asked mockingly, snagging the glass from the limp hand and smirking at the squinty glare that was leveled up at him._

_“Please, sister dear,” his pseudo-brother snarked, “I’m afraid if I leave this bar without the wonderful numbness that scotch brings to me, I’ll never be able to achieve a peaceful state of rest.”_

_He bit back another snort and obligingly refilled the glass, smirking still, “You know Father will kill you if you come home drunk again,” he sing-songed._

_“Please,” he smirked, “he’ll have to catch me at it first.”_

_“Your funeral, brother dear,” Alfred drawled, and a glass not to far from them hit the counter hard enough to crack. They both flinched and whirled to face the cause of the noise just as the entire bar quieted._

_Green eyes studied the crack in the glass with an oddly sharp focus, hand gripping the glass tightly enough that it was a wonder the entire thing didn’t bite into skin. The man with the vivid, poisonous green eyes hummed a bit after studying the glass, and let it go._

_The glass **crumbled** into dust, shattering too mild a word to describe it, and everyone in the bar flinched away from it. Green eyes set under heavy eyebrows and messy straw blond hair glanced up and met Alfred’s own stunned blue eyes – stunned but not **surprised** – and the man smiled._

_“I will take care of that,” he assured him casually, but there was something odd in his voice, and all Alfred could do was nod silently._

_Arthur was obviously unsatisfied with the silent answer, but let it go. He went about cleaning off the bar with a dust rag and a pan, and the entire time, Alfred could **feel** the venomous gaze on him._

_**Normal,** he told himself as he wiped down the bar, reaching for another glass for the Empire, **you have to act normal.**_

_“Rum this time, if you’ve got it,” came from across the counter and he paused for a split second when green eyes locked with his, swallowed, nodded, and added mentally, **a little heap of terrified wouldn’t go amiss either at this point**._

_“Your brother?” he was reaching down for the rum when his colonizer’s voice startled him, but thankfully, it hardly showed more than just a slight jump. He turned to face him, heart racing, but his voice was steady._

_“Yes,” he said, making sure his pitch was unchanged from the one he used in this guise, “he tends to hang around here as the night goes on.”_

_A single brow raised, and the empire scoffed “Hanging around here all night, drinking scotch by the bottle for all hours and draining your pay, I presume?”_

_Alfred frowned and assumed the haughtiness of the highborn who’d been offended, “Not at all, sir. This is our father’s establishment, and my brother’s work contributes to his own allotment of liquor. He stays around in case the bar gets too rowdy for me to deal with on my lonesome.” His reply was pointed, poignant, and only **slightly** affronted. Arthur blinked and he suppressed a smile._

_“What does he do for work, then?” he inquired sharply, and Alfred had to bite back a sour ‘none-of-your-business’._

_“He used to run errands for our father,” he said sharply, eyebrows furrowing together in annoyance. “Philadelphia isn’t close to the docks, you know. Jonathan used to deal with the merchants at port, along with most of the finances used to purchase new stock.”_

_Eyebrows rose sharply and twitched, “Used to?”_

_He nearly slammed the glass, newly filled with the rum the man had demanded, but controlled the effort. Arthur’s sharp eyes had caught the motion, and he bit back a curse. “Well, it certainly isn’t his fault he can’t continue his work,” he said defensively, “It’s not safe to leave the city these days, let alone if the border patrol would allow him to leave for such ‘frivolous reasons’.” He scoffed at the end, and Arthur leaned forwards, eyes glinting._

_“You might want to be a mite more careful with your words, my dear,” the empire rumbled ominously, and Alfred scowled._

_“We’re loyal,” he finally snapped, not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but definitely enough for Arthur to **hear** the truth in his voice, no matter the disguised inflection, “We **always** **have been**. But we are not treated as such. Our loyalty has no value to you and your men, sir. Forgive me, for losing my temper.”_

_A moment of silence passed between them, then, the empire replied with a magnanimous, “Of course, dear,” before standing, dropping the remainder of his fee on the countertop, and smiling._

_Alfred watched him go, feeling the pull of his colonizer’s bond go with him, and couldn’t help the feeling that he’d been missing something. But even so, it wouldn’t matter. Arthur was only in Philadelphia briefly, to check in with the occupying troops, before he headed back down south, where the raiding was focused._

_And either way, it only took Washington a week to open a channel through the occupation and sneak him, along with several others, out of Philadelphia without as much as an upturned glass to show their absence._

* * *

            “That was quite the tale,” the elder nation murmured softly, as his emotions warred between outraged that he’d been duped so easily and _amused_ at the _how_.

            “S’not an easy one,” Alfred yawned as he finished off the sentence, and Arthur’s eyes warmed for the split second the younger’s attention wavered. The teenage nation blinked, “It _can’t_ be that late already,” he said in mild disbelief, emotion eclipsed by the yawn that cut his words in half. Arthur felt a flutter of amusement and fond nostalgia grip him, and he shifted so that Alfred curled into him unwittingly.

            “Mmmm, let go,” Alfred scowled half-heartedly, cut off by yet another yawn. “I’ve got to get home. My boss’ll kill me if I miss my flight _again_.”

            “You can’t honestly expect me to let you wander through the airport in your state,” meaning half asleep and completely unaware as to what he was doing (i.e. cuddling with his former colonizer). Arthur snorted, eyes glinting in a distinctly cunning way.

            “I’ve -,” a yawn cut him off again, “- got to make it home for tomorrow.”

            “You can fly out in the morning,” Arthur said strictly, curling the already dozing nation closer to him. “Sleep now.”

            Silence, only broken by a brief yawn and an attempted stare down, resulted in the softly grumbled, “Fine,” followed shortly by an even softer, “G’night, Dad.”

            Arthur’s heart softened as blue eyes slipped closed, and he replied gruffly, far more sober than his wayward child would’ve believed of him, “Goodnight bratling,” letting the silence of the night wash over him. The clock chimed midnight seemingly minutes later, rattling throughout the house, and the younger blond didn’t stir. Absolutely positive now that America was fast asleep, he whispered, “Happy Birthday, little brat,” before curling protectively around the other.

            Maybe in the morning he could ask the boy where he’d gotten the idea to hide from him in a goddamn dress. At least he could enjoy _those_ fireworks.

            White teeth flashed in the darkness of the room, and he bit back a snort as he pictured it.

            _Drunken old man, indeed_.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is either really disjointed or kind of abrupt? I'm not really happy with this, but of course, that might just be my reaction as a writer to what my work is. Oh well, please tell me what you think of my Fourth of July tribute!


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